


Shadows of Hellfire

by Dealialestina (orphan_account)



Category: Sanders Sides, Thomas Sanders
Genre: M/M, Magic AU, Multi, Prince!Roman, Slow Burn, Violence, seriously this is gonna be longggggg, slowest burn ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 12:52:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12748701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Dealialestina
Summary: Prince Roman of Aurulia, having lived a bare sixteen years of life, is about to be married off to the first suitor who can kill Instinct, the leader of the Southern Witch Tribe. His solution to this? Escape his home and take the head of Instinct for himself, taking charge of his destiny.But there is one, itty bitty tiny problem:He has no idea where he's going.Luckily, along his way, he meets a kind stranger going by the cover name of 'Anxiety', as it is to close to witch's territory to use one's real name. After all, everyone knows that witches can't cast spells on you unless they know your name.And maybe, after a little while, his feelings reveal themselves to be more than simply friendly.(Come bother me on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sinning-tragedy )





	1. Life in the Shadows

From the moment Virgil Ateas Isolé had been born, he had been silent.  
The world around him burned to bright, his mother’s fond smile to warm, and the gentle hum of magic in the air, to kind for him to let more than three tears fall.  
Later in life, he would be deemed a threat because of the pleasant grey aura he emitted, spat at and forced to hide his best features because others were scared of him.  
But for now, his wails turned to a look of deep concern, slightly unfitting the infant’s face as his mother’s eyes turned with tearful emotion, and his tiny hand placed itself on his mothers cheek.  
Almost as if he were trying to wipe away her sorrow with a hand that had seen nothing of why she was crying.  
His mother, Lucia Noxin Isolé, cried that day. Not because of the pain, nor the fear that, without a father to guide him, her son may grow with fear of himself…  
No.  
Lucia cried because she knew that she could not protect her child forever, and as his hand lain upon her cheek, a shadow from the corner caressing her at her son’s will, giving a hug he was to small to gift, she sobbed because her son’s magic would cause him not joy, but severe pain and sorrow.  
And thus she named her child Virgil, in hopes the legendary name’s accompanying spirit would be enough to help guide her child through the pits of hellfire that awaited him.  
Hoping the world might spare her son damnation, cast of a xenophobic world.  
Little did she know, from her own magic cast a spell upon the now sleeping child. A spell that would take much time to come to fruition, and as it set alight the face of her son, it also tickled three others. A Royal prince, yet to be born. A salesman’s son, and an orphan, who’s parents had yet to die.  
But that spell would only change their future. For now, each slept, a curling smile sweeping them away to dreams of adventures in dark forests, and a mother’s warm embrace.


	2. Royal and Loyal... To a Point

Prince Roman awoke, as he did every day. The beating of the bright sun pulling his eyes open as his butler pulled open the rouge curtains that surrounded his bed, tying the curtains to his bedposts in the same intricate way he always tied the golden tassels.

“Good morning, Prince Roman.” His butler’s voice was calm as Roman groaned and yawned, pushing himself up against the padded headboard of his bed.  
His butler nodded silently, salt and pepper hair tied into a neat ponytail. Roman took this moment to note, in an odd sort of awe, how much older George had grown to look.  
Of course, having taken care of any prince as rowdy adventurous for his seventeen years of life would cause a few grey hairs, but Roman had never quite noticed the crows feet at the edges of his eyes or the crease between his brows from furrowing, in stress and confusion.

“Mmm,” Roman yawned again, pulling himself to the end of his bed as his butler produced a suitable set of clothes from his wardrobe. He began to change as his butler moved to a tea set on a sterling silver platter and mixed the sugar into the tea.

“This morning we have a lovely rose bud tea,” the aroma was soothing as it was powerful. The small glowing flowers coloring the now sweetened, steaming water.  
Roman nodded with lethargic movement as he took the teacup and saucer, each porcelain, lined with golden floral trim, and took a long, gentle sip.  
“And you also have yet to dictate a letter of acknowledgment for sir Alaric’s request for your hand,” George stated as if he were reading from a clipboard.  
He never looked up from where he was stirring the tea-pot with a far to small silver spoon. He knew the royal well enough that any reaction he gave to such a heavy statement as getting married, especially to a man twice is age, was not going to be the calmest thing.

“And I- wait, what?!” Roman nearly spilt his tea all over his snow white dress-pants.  
“Ugh, haven't I already posted that I am not interested in his advances? Nor others of any such kind??” Roman spat, and if he hadn't been blinded by a cocktail of disgust and outrage, he may have noticed how George’s shoulders tensed. He only took a deep breath, and nodded, blue eyes cold and something close to belligerent, still pending the right emotion.

“That you have, sire, but as you know, your parents wed when they were a year younger than you. The court is worried, after all, nigh you nor your brother have taken-” Thankfully, Roman had already set down his tea, as how fairly he was flailing his arms, he surely would’ve broken the priceless dishes.  
Instead, his expensive suit only became slightly rumpled at the extensive movement.

“We are barely seventeen, George! And I care not to think of what pressures my mothers had to go under at the poor age of fourteen. Married to complete strangers.” He sighed.  
“Luckily, they found each other. Luckily, they had to be wed only four times before they found each other.”  
“I do not wish to think of how many royals, in today’s social climate, are being wed to those twice and thrice their age. Then told to produce an heir.” He sighed, and George took a moment to take in the young prince, how he had changed from the bright eyed boy of their youth.

“I-I apologize for pressuring you, m’lord.” George bowed, Roman ran a frantic hand through his hair.

“No, no, it’s alright. You were just speaking from what mother told you to, correct?” Roman’s brown eyes softened at his companion’s nod.  
“Then it is an issue I will have to bring up with her.”  
And with that, Roman took his leave.

It wasn't hard to find his mothers, both queens of the busy, prosperous kingdom of Aurulia.  
You only really had to follow the frantic yelling of the press.

“Queen Reignia, Queen Coronis! When are your sons going to take their Venui?”  
“Who are you choosing as their Fornic!?” Another yelled, waving their quill in the air.  
“My queens, what about the growing problems with the Southern Witch tribe?” “Yeah who is in charge of that? And how about-“ finally, the press seemed to notice him.   
“Prince Roman?! Do you have any statements about your-” Roman drowned them out, humming a gentle tune to himself and focusing on that.  
His mothers waved with twin smiles, the guards yelling for silence and pushing back against the frantic press.  
At a look from his mother, Roman waved to the crowd and gave a sunlit smile, then entering the breakfast hall with his parents, nodding to the doorman who shut it behind him.

“Ah, that does remind me dear, we must find Roman a suitable fornic.” Coronis reminded, pressing a gentle kiss to her love’s cheek, Reignia nodded, and Roman bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming out.  
He didn't need someone to produce an heir with, especially if he was then just gonna be married off to the next person his mothers deemed fit.

“We also need one for Odoacer, as well as a venui for both of them, hm…” Reignia sat down at the ornately decorated table, smoothing out the white table cloth as she looked around the room.

“Speaking of Odoacer, Roman, could you go check on your brother to see what’s taking him so long?” Reignia asked, to which Roman mutely nodded and excused himself.  
He’d barely made it out of his chair when the door opened revealing Roman’s tired twin brother.

“Good-morning,” he muttered, moving and sitting himself down at the breakfast table, scanning casually over the ornate setup of the pearl white tablecloth, he adjusted the golden silverware so it was straight.

“Good morning honey.” Even though the tone was warm, neither of his mothers spared him a second glance.

“As I was saying though,” Queen Coronis continued, “We really must find some way to choose amongst the suitors! I think that…” Roman stared down his plate, tracing the circular white dish with his eyes and humming a gentle tune in his head.  
There was, after all, more than one reason he had learned to block out loud voices.  
As he sat, he allowed his mind to wander, discreetly taking in what his mothers were saying. Watching through the corner of his eye as they beckoned the servants and directed his life with the sway of the quill the scribe used to take down what they’d say.  
Somewhere along the line, food was brought and served and, though hunger-less, Roman ate.

“And toward Sir Trowen Alaric’s advances on Prince Roman of Aurulia.” Roman nearly choked. They weren't even going to pretend to ask his opinion on the matter?  
“You, or any other, may take my son’s hand if you bring me the head of the Southern Witch Tribe’s leader, Instinct.” Her lips curled oddly around the name, as the mere word tasted wrong in her dignified mouth.  
Don't get him wrong, Roman held no special love for the Witches. Their powers were terrifying and they seemed set wanting to destroy and/or control most of the known world. But there was something about the way his mother said it that made him bite back a grimace.  
Then, an idea came to mind.

If it were that anyone who brought the Which leader’s head to his mother would have his hand…  
What if he killed this, Instinct, fellow?  
What if he took control of his own destiny.

 

Two nights later, George opened the curtain to awaken his prince to only find the bed empty and the window wide open.  
He was gone.


	3. Silver in Fields of Gold

The fields of gold sprawled long over ranging hills, the wind brushing through the tall hay as a cloaked figure trailed a track through it.  
Atop his horse, Celeritas, Roman spotted the silver figure, stark against the golden background, Roman heeded Celeritas, nicknamed Cel by a seven year old Roman who could not yet pronounce his mare’s name, toward the figure.  
They galloped on toward the silver figure, only stopping once they got to the moving mystery’s side.  
He hoped to ask for directions to the nearest town, as food and water were both drawing dry, but as he moved toward the hopefully not also lost figure.  
Eyes that he could’ve sworn shone ruby red not a flash ago twinkled like emeralds with vivid green luster.  
Roman rubbed his eyes in disbelief, but when he blinked them open again the same sharp lime stared back at him with a cocked brow adorning unfittingly pale confusion, smitten by the solitary young man, Roman struggled to make words form.  
Before any complement fitting enough to bestow to one so beautiful could form, the stranger spoke.

“Are you lost?” He asked, tone tepid, almost curious, yet somehow… apathetic.  
Something about him made Roman defensive, and before he could think about it, he was stuttering out a sharp ‘no!’.  
The cloaked one’s eyebrow, and curiosity, peaked.

“Then… Why are you here? Why aren't you continuing on your way?” Because, apparently, he was a liar.

“I-I, uh…” Roman’s eyes darted to the left, trying to find a reasonable lie past the far away wood of green trees.  
“I-I was, uh, I was wondering if you needed a ride? You looked, uh, you looked tired so I thought I’d be nice and offer you a ride.” He scratched the back of his neck.

There was a pause.

“No thanks,” he stated, “now could you move your horse? She’s kinda standing on what I need.” Roman nodded, pulling on Cel’s reigns, the horse whinnied and took three steps backward.  
The other knelt down, enveloped by the golden hay as he sunk to his knees. Roman, after a moment of weighing his curiosity, dismounted his mare and waded through the surprisingly soft hay to kneel down next to the darker figure.  
The trowel dug into the dry ground, slowly lifting the roots of a plant with several golden stems and three silver blossoms, shimmering in the daylight.

“What is that?” Roman asked in awe, but the figure, pulling his hood down as to get a better view, quickly shushed him.  
It seemed, at disruptive noise, the buds curled in on themselves, closing tighter and shrinking away.  
With no other ideas, Roman simply stayed silent, and as the other pulled out a small container to put the plant in. A sharp, almost musical whistle came over the hills.  
Seemingly in response, the flower’s petals opened and began to dance gently, almost as if it were dancing to the music.  
A few moments later, however, the music stopped, and the flower slowly closed again.

“What was that?” Roman asked in a far calmer, near silent tone.

“This,” the stranger smiled softly at the plant, “is a song-flower.” He explained. “They only bloom at hearing what they consider music, meaning they only grow near music. This is one of the only natural places you can find that kind of song.” The other placed the plant in the pocket of his robe, then stood again. Roman following soon after, he realized, at even footing, that Roman was ever so slightly taller than the darker.  
He didn't seem to notice.  
Then, Roman realized that he had yet to introduce himself.

“My name is Prince Ro-” The darker figure hushed him, gentle as the crashing waters. Roman was almost to enraptured to note the rudeness of being hushed… Almost.

“It’s not a good idea to state your real name in these parts,” he spoke, voice subtle like the crackle of leaves beneath your boot, yet pressing like the throaty growl of a cornered jaguar, ready to pounce.  
Almost as if on cue, a crow gave it’s throaty call, echoing off the tree-line that seemed oddly closer than it once had been.

“Oh, witches,” Roman nodded, then quickly realizing he didn't have the other’s name, and, by the looks of it, probably wouldn't get it any time soon.

“So.. uh, what should I call you?” Roman asked, scratching the back of his neck.

“Around here, I go by Anxiety.” Roman nodded, it was an odd choice of a title…  
“And since you’re clearly new to these parts,” Anxiety eyed him up and down, bringing new color to Roman’s already rosy cheeks.  
“I’ll call you…” he paused, seeming to decide something. “Princey.”

“Princey?” Roman asked, but Anxiety had already turned on his heel and moved off.  
If he had been paying attention, he may have noticed how Anxiety didn't make much of a dent in the hay he walked through, the only beating sound, the few leaves crackling beneath Roman’s black boots as he shuffled through the tall grass and his horse moved to keep up.  
He might have noticed, but he was a little… Distracted.

“Yup,” Anxiety called back, Roman could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Now hurry up Princey, we ‘avent got all day!”

“B-But where are we going?” Roman jogged through the hay field, willing himself to catch up with the attractive man in black, even though the hill was steep.

“There’s a little tavern near here,” just as they crested the hill, Anxiety paused. “You can rent a room there.” His voice was deep and gentle, making Roman’s face glow bright red. And, after a moment, Anxiety spoke again.

“To sleep, asshole,” he muttered, a barely visible flush over his cheeks as he sped up. “The sun’s going down and I doubt you wanna be in these forests after dark.”

And from behind them, long needling fingers clawed into the bark of a nearby pine, sharp amber eyes moved to peer around the edge of the tree. Watching… Waiting.


	4. Know and See

After tying up Cel in the nearby stables, the tavern they eventually reached was somehow, still amidst the hustle and bustle of the town, yet secluded in it’s own corner.  
Draped in brush and long-limbed branches from a forest that seemed to drape it’s curtain of shadow ever closer, the last droplets of sunlight reflecting off autumn leaves, an arm of ivy inched its way up the fractured window on the lower level of the old, oak built cottage.  
As they entered, Anxiety pulled up his hood, cloaking worried eyes and, following the defensive motion, Roman pulled a dagger he didn't entirely know how to use from his hip, gripping the slick, dragon-hide handle tightly.  
Anxiety pulled open the batten door by the rusted iron handle and swung it open with a loud complaint from the hinges, Roman swept inside with a set expression, pausing and waiting as Anxiety seemed to hesitate, eyes darting to the forest..  
Anxiety entered.  
The bar was oddly quiet, the few patrons inside the shady den, lit by the flickering limelight of the candles, reflected in their ale, nursing their drinks with occasional call for another to drown their sorrow.

“Could I, uh, pardon me? C-Could I, uh, is there anyone there?” Roman broke the equanimity with an anxious shift to his form.  
Behind the bar was empty.  
With a bedraggled sigh, Anxiety slammed his fist onto the slightly rotting bar, and with a trodden look, the barkeep see down the glass he’d been polishing.

“Be right back,” Anxiety remarked, moving behind the bar and into the back.  
Roman stood, rigid.  
A few long, drawing moments later, the patrons of the bar’s eyes shifting, gliding over the newcomers until they slid off, finding their ale far more interesting.  
Eventually, a motherly figure emerged, shoulders barely showing up from behind the tall bar.  
She gave an eerily crinkled smile.

“Anie, good to see ye, darlin,” the woman, features lit with pleasantness as gentle as the flickering candle light and the lilac fall that shone through the yellowed window to the left.  
Two patrons from the corner stood up and hobbled out, thanking the woman, ‘mama Iroha’, as they called her, for the drinks before leaving with an oddly calm demeanor for two drunk, burly men.  
“Who’s ye lil friend?” She asked with a friendly, gap toothed grin spread across wrinkled chestnut cheeks as she emerged out from behind the bar.  
Hobbling, her weight clunking down with the old cane she weighed upon, she adjusted the yellow knit shawl over her shoulders, woven in intricate and delicate patterns over her pumpkin orange gown. She craned her neck to look up at Roman. Now, he wasn't abnormally tall, yet, this crinkly woman who seemed so frail as a gentle breeze could knock her down, came up to about his stomach.

“Mama Iroha, this is Princey, he’s a traveler in need of a place to stay for the night.” Anxiety’s voice was undoubtably soft, oddly comforting from the spiteful, snide conversation he’d offered on the way over.  
But, somehow, it wasn't odd.

“Bend down, boy,” ‘Mama Iroha’ spoke, “lemme get a good look at ‘cha.” Roman obediently took to one knee, something he’d seen knights gracefully do so many times, yet as he tried it, it felt clunky, shifting and odd.  
‘Mama Iroha’ adjusted her ovular glasses, peering at him as if she were peering through into his very soul.  
Unused to the pressure, his knees had begun to gently quake.  
“Mm, I see.” Her voice was grim, like a doctor before diagnosis, she coiled back slightly.

“S-See?” Roman muttered, not quite understanding.  
Mama Iroha patted his cheek twice.

“The trodden path you walk is lined with rosemary, but begonia and coriander might be found amidst the clover and brambles,” she paused, looking Roman directly in the eye. “Beware the lilac gardenia, he will try to leave but you must hold on, he is the only one who can help you truly succeed.” Succeed? Succeed in what- suddenly, the true reason for his being here came to mind and he looked away, nodding.  
Whoever 'he' was, he'd help Roman kill Instinct.  
Somehow.  
“But tha’s tomorrow, child,” she gave a sunlit smile. “Tonight, you ca’ stay with me. We’re having Tzimmes!” And with that she hobbled off. Humming a gentle tune, as if she hadn't just rocked Roman’s world. Roman, not knowing what else to do, looked to Anxiety with a bewildered expression, muttering “Tzimmes?”

“Yeah,” Anxiety nodded, “It’s a really good, got meat, yams, sweet potatoes…” He listed off.  
“Just come on.” He moved behind the bar and Roman examined the two taps off different kegs and the many, many small bottles of different random things from under the bar.  
Roman moved through the door to the back and his eyes widened at the cozy dinner table lit within.  
Anxiety moved back into the small off kitchen, retrieving a large pot and bringing it out to set on the kitchen table, already set for three people.

“Cinnamon, Butterscotch, Caramel! We have visitors!” Mama Iroha called into the cottage, suddenly three corgi’s came tumbling down the stairs, panting and smiling, they gave small, oddly un-startling yips as the small dogs circled around Roman, sniffing him.  
Roman, of course, never having seen such small adorable creatures and not knowing how to act, tried to step back, and nearly tripped over Cinnamon who had been circling him with excitement.  
Finally, though, he was able to stabilize himself as Anxiety bent down and gave a small whistle.  
All three dogs came running, yipping and barking as they all tried franticly to pile into his lap at the same time.  
Anxiety gave a laugh as they lapped at his cheek and clothes, smiling at the familiar fluffy animals.  
Roman, not able to hide his own soft smile and accompanying blush at Anxiety’s reaction, turned away, catching the eye of Mama Iroha who gave a knowing wink.  
This did not help Roman’s blush, but Mama Iroha just smiled, inviting the three of them to the table.

The food was indescribable. Soft and chewy and sweet and warm, it tasted like home, even though he’d never had it before.  
And, oddly enough, the conversation at the table flowed more easily than it ever had at home.  
It made Roman feel welcome, warm.  
He didn't know why he hadn't felt this before.

Anxiety watched Roman carefully as Mama Iroha told an exaggerated tale, hands moving as she described from when she was a little girl, traveling the world, before the separation of Magical and non.  
And Anxiety tried to focus on the sweet potatoes, and not how his heart fluttered any time Roman laughed his wonderful laugh, and focus on how, tomorrow, he would need to leave Roman behind.  
After all, he couldn’t let the other know that the very man he had been sent to kill was the one guiding him.  
He couldn't tell Roman that Anxiety, that Anxiety was the head of the Southern Witch tribe.  
And if Roman found out anything more, he’d have to be killed.


End file.
